


tatemae

by ZekeStrife



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (well almost everyone), Everyone Lives Together, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Papyrus Has Issues, Papyrus Needs A Hug, Papyrus Remembers Resets, Papyrus-centric, Post-Pacifist Route, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, the Alphyne is mostly in the background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZekeStrife/pseuds/ZekeStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans isn't the only one who hides things behind a smile. It would probably have been easier, if he had been.</p><p>[dead. might get rewritten at a later date.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Gold._

_Petals and vines, an up-beat voice; a flower wrapped around his ulna, radius._

_Vertebra snapping, tasting bone marrow, blood and dust— the uneven bottom of his own skull against his palm, the fluctuating beat of his soul struggling to keep him alive._

_The child's dead eyes, and he's letting go, smiling as he fades to dust._

_Golden flowers, sunlight— his brother, lying through his grin. Himself, pretending. Cradling the phone in his hand, but never connecting— leave a message after the beep._

_Lights off, house empty; he's alone, alone, voice loud to kill the silence. Bone snapping, fingers digging into dirt and wood— dust and dust and dust and—_

He wakes up.

The room is dark, completely dark, and for a second Papyrus is confused— Snowdin's never this dark, and he didn't cover his window, and—

Oh.

The surface.

He's lying on a normal bed, not his race car bed, and Sans is snoring from the opposite side of the room. A digital clock blinks from a desk that's sitting between their two beds, and it's the middle of the night.

Papyrus peers over at the numbers, rubbing at his sockets tiredly— from the look of things, he's been asleep for around ninety minutes. A new record.

He bites down a yawn, pushes his blanket off and slides out of bed. He's sharing a room with Sans, something he doesn't _really_ mind. The government's been working on making a district solely for monsters, so the adjustment period won't be _too_ unbearable, but it's going to take some time. So, currently, he and Sans' are living in one big house with Undyne, Alphys, Toriel, Asgore, and Frisk.

Hence, the room sharing.

He and Sans' room is on the second floor, along with Undyne and Alphys', who's also sharing. Something they both seemed _quite_ happy about.

Papyrus sneaks out of his room, careful to be as quiet as possible; the stairs don't creak as he pads down them, and from there, he just have to cross the room, to get to the kitchen.

The kitchen is all steel and burnished metal; it's sleek and there's cabinets, counters, and drawers, a fridge that Papyrus could _fit_ inside, plus a dishwasher, oven, and really just about everything.

Papyrus fishes out a carton of cereal from one of the thousand cabinets, finds a bowl in one of the other thousand; the spoons are in one of the drawers, and the milk's in the fridge.

A big table takes up the space the kitchen itself doesn't, and unlike the metallic look of the kitchen, it's wooden, and has nice, soft chairs around it.

Papyrus plops his breakfast down on the table, and sits down to eat.

He hasn't bothered to change out of his sleepwear, because nobody beside him is up at this time— he's done this numerous times already, and every time it's just been him, and his cereal.

Pouring in a good amount of milk, Papyrus starts crunching.

It took a while to figure out how exactly to convert normal, non-magic, human food to something monsters could actually eat. And while it isn't pre-made edible for them _yet_ , it's pretty easy to do yourself.

Mid-bite, the sound of footsteps sneaks into the kitchen— Papyrus looks toward the door, clams his teeth down on the spoon, and yanks his sleeves further down.

It turns out to be Frisk.

Bed-hair, wearing a long shirt that goes all the way down to their knees, and blinking blearily into the dark Papyrus hasn't bothered to expel.

They spot him after a few disoriented blinks.

<Papyrus?>

Papyrus slurps down the rest of his spoonful of cereal and milk, and rests it on the edge of his bowl.

"Hey Frisk!"

He makes sure his voice is still up-beat, but not too loud.

Frisk rubs at one eye, pads further into the kitchen— after a pause, they step back and flick on the lights.

<Why're you up?> they ask, hands quick and effortless signing out the words.

In the Underground, it is quite common to speak hands— and while Frisk's version of it is a bit different, the two version shares a lot of the same motions.

So it really hadn't taken long, before everyone could understand Frisk just fine.

"Why're _you_ up?" Papyrus asks instead, shovelling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Frisk gives him a look, all raised eyebrows and pinched mouth. But they don't call him out; just answers him.

<Woke up. Wanted something to drink.>

They pad over to the cabinets, standing on their tip-toes to reach the one filled with glasses.

Papyrus offers them the milk when they sit down at the table, and they offer him a quick smile of thanks, before pouring themselves half a glass of milk.

Setting the milk-carton back down, Frisk pins them with a look.

<You didn't answer _my_ question. >

And, there's the callout.

Papyrus shrugs, takes another bite of cereal— it's already starting to get soggy.

Frisk frowns. Takes a sip of their milk, eyes lingering on him. Skittering across his face, probably looking for any kind of clue.

Welp, too bad. No clues there.

Frisk taps the table to catch his attention, then signs <what're those?>

They lean forward, jab their finger at his—

Papyrus doesn't even realise he's moving, before he's already yanked down his sleeves.

Frisk leans back, surprise and confusion flittering across their face.

<Papyrus?>

"Nothing," he says, and there's nothing he can do about the flatness to his voice; he barely manages to keep his smile on his face. "Shouldn't you go back to sleep?"

Frisk frowns, sharp and sudden— but they don't say anything, just shrugs and takes another sip of their milk.

Papyrus slowly picks back up his spoon, and takes another mouthful of cereal.

The silence that settles between them is strained and uncomfortable, and Papyrus pins his eyes to his bowl of soggy cereal and lukewarm milk.

It feels like _hours_ before Frisk sets the glass back down, and pushes out their chair.

Papyrus looks back up at them.

<Goodnight,> they sign, and their face is painted with concern. They don't leave immediately, and from the look on their face, it's obvious they're offering to talk.

Papyrus smiles. "Night Frisk! Sleep tight."

Frisk offers a thin, not-quite smile, and takes their glass to the sink, before slipping back out of the kitchen.

As soon as Papyrus is sure Frisk is gone, he drops the spoon— pushes the bowl away, and drags his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on his wrists.

He closes his eyes.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, without heat. Just a weary, listless thought.

He curls his fingers up around his humeri, picks at the bone. At the straggly cracks, and old fissures.

He really should have changed clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tatemae:](http://other-wordly.tumblr.com/post/29345625469/tatemae) what a person pretends to believe.  
>  humeri: the plural form of humerus.  
> hands is not referring to Wingdings. 
> 
> (i didn't mean to write this, but here i am anyway.)  
> okay so this fic is _not_ going to take priority over my other one. (Ghosts Ain't Dead)  
>  also, unlike _everything else_ i wanna write, i have no... plan, for how this fic will go. i have a rough idea of what it'll be about, but beside that? no idea.  
>  a lot of this fic will be inspired by ideas/theories i'm talking about on tumblr, with a few people. if you're curious to read them, check my profile: there's a link.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading!! kudos and comments are, as always, much appreciated! ♥


	2. Chapter 2

Papyrus decides, after what must be minutes, to take a walk.

He gets up, scrapes the soggy cereal out into the trash, pours out the milk— slips upstairs, keeping as quiet as he possible can.

Sans is still asleep, face buried in his arm. His blanket's been kicked off, and he's hugging his pillow to his chest. Papyrus pulls the blanket back over him, then creaks open their shared closet.

Most of Sans' clothes are in one big pile at the bottom of the closet; it's a complete mess, and Papyrus has to force himself to leave it alone _every time_ he sees it.

He fishes out a long-sleeved shirt, a pair of long black pants. He changes quickly, puts his sleepwear underneath his blanket, and makes the bed. Then, he naps his signature red scarf from its resting place at the head of his bed.

And then he can leave; slipping back downstairs and leaving a quickly written note, in case somebody notices he's gone before he gets back. Not likely, but he may as well.

He takes the spare key in one of the cupboards, doesn't bother with his phone; he walks out of the front-door, out into the cool, chilly night.

Closing the door behind him feels freeing. Outside, here in the dimness of the night, there's _nobody_ he has to pretend for.

He can just walk. Doesn't have to smile, or be _happy_ , and just that makes him smile.

Papyrus sets down the street, boots tapping loudly against the sidewalk— the street they live on is quiet, and there's mostly monsters in this neighbourhood. Monsters, and the more open-minded humans.

Tonight, he decides to go deeper into the city— their house is towards the outskirt, and from where they live, their Mountain is a tall shape in the distant. Close enough that you can see the trees, but far enough away you can't see anything important.

It feels kind of nice, to know that the mountain is a simple run away.

Hands in his pockets, eyes on the stars, Papyrus walks. The silence is calming, but it is also the first thing to change— city noise creeping in, the sound of cars and people.

Papyrus crosses a street, turns a corner— pink light washes across the sidewalk, and there's open bars, restaurants. Couples walking hand in hand, a group of friends laughing loudly. There's humans and monsters, an almost comfortable mix.

Papyrus keeps to the opposite street, walks along the dark houses and observes the noise on the other side.

A group of four monsters strides down the opposite sidewalk, laughing loudly and talking together. One of them catches his eyes, a familiar shape—

Oh. It's the Nice Cream Guy, ears perked upright, a huge smile on his face. He's looking at a cat monster, deeply engaged in whatever they're talking about.

Papyrus slows down just a bit, curious to see how he's taken to the surface. He seems happy, genuinely content. He laughs brightly, ducking his head down, eyes squinted in joy.

Papyrus smiles, a small thing that feels more genuine than any of the smiles he's given lately. He's glad the other Snowdin monster is adjusting, is _happy_.

Observation done, Papyrus turns away, picks his pace up again—

"Hey! You're one of Frisk's friend, right?"

It's an unfamiliar voice, words leaning into each other and voice hoarse; Papyrus stops, looks over at the other street.

It's the cat monster. He's jogging across the street, quick as, well, a cat. He stops by the curb, one foot on the sidewalk, the other on the pavement.

He smells of smoke, heavy and sharp. He smiles, fangs glinting in the corner of his mouth.

Papyrus tilts his head a bit, puts on his usual smile. "YES?"

The cat monster laughs, a rough thing, and runs a hand across the top of his head, smoothing down fuzzy fur. "Sorry, I just haven't seen the kid since," he waggles his fingers a bit, smiling roughly. "well, everything."

He sticks out a hand, still smiling; it seems a bit plastered one, but not fake— more alike a habit, an unconscious thing.

Papyrus takes his hand.

"I'm BP. You're, uh—" he pauses, smile twitching a bit.

Papyrus brightens his smile. "PAPYRUS."

BP nods, retracts his hand; he shoves it in his pocket, leaves the other one by his side. There's a cigarette between his fingers, embers glowing slightly.

"Sorry, the kid only told me your name like, once."

Papyrus blinks, smile almost falling off in surprise. "FRISK MENTIONED ME?"

BP nods. "Yeah, they actually told me a lot about you. Said you were really nice to them."

"OH," Papyrus says, for lack of anything else. Frisk had _mentioned_ him? But, why?

"Anyway, I just wanted to say hi— you mind telling the kid hi from me?"

Papyrus shakes his mind back to reality, focuses back on BP— the cat monster's watching him surprisingly closely, still smiling that not quite smile.

"SURE! IT WAS NICE TO MEET YOU, BP."

The smile twists into something surprisingly genuine, and he lifts his hand, puts the cigarette between his teeth. "Heh, nice to meet you too."

He steps back, puts both feet on the pavement— he looks over his shoulder, a quick glance.

The Nice Cream Guy is standing patiently, one eye on them, and the other on the two monsters he's with— one a cat, the other one an alligator. He's talking with them, shoulders shaking with chuckles.

BP twists his head back to Papyrus, face alight with an idea.

"Hey, why don't you join us?"

Papyrus stares down at him, baffled.

"JOIN YOU?" he asks, not quite sure he heard right. Maybe talking so loudly all the time is deafening him, or something?

BP laughs, but not in a mean way. Just a short sound, almost like a chuckle, but louder.

"Yeah! Why not? The others won't mind."

Papyrus looks back over at the 'others'— the Nice Cream Guy is looking away now, engaged in some kind of discussion with the other two. He's shaking his head in disbelief, but there's a smile on his face.

It seems like they're having fun.

Papyrus clicks his teeth together, looks down at BP. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"AH, I WOULD LOVE TO, BUT..."

He grins sheepishly, shrugs one shoulder.

BP shrugs. "Gotta get home, huh? Yeah, that's understandable, it is pretty late."

He smiles again, scratches at his neck. "Be careful walking home, yeah? This side of the city isn't the nicest."

Papyrus forces his smile to remain on his face, nods. "I'LL BE CAREFUL."

BP nods, takes another step back. "Hope to see you around, Papyrus. You seem like a good guy."

Then he turns around, walks quickly across the pavement to join the others.

Instead of leaving, Papyrus stands still, watches— Nice Cream Guy's eyes snaps over to BP immediately, and he reaches out to gently bump a fist against the cat's shoulder.

He asks something, and BP shrugs. Nice Cream Guy stretches to his toes, peering over at Papyrus— their eyes catch, and the other monster smiles widely, waves a hand.

Taken aback, Papyrus waves back.

He drops his hand back down, after a second, and starts down the sidewalk— he'll walk a little further, then turn back around.

He leaves the street behind quickly, even if he doesn't _mean_ to; he can't keep the smile on his face anymore, and as soon as he's sure he's out of sight, he curls his fingers into the cloth over his humeri, digging in.

He sighs, ducks his face into his scarf— it isn't like he could have done anything else. It was an offer made out of pity, nothing else.

Papyrus huffs out a breath, closes his eyes briefly. He shoves the thought away, hides them away in the back of his mind. He's still got a bit of a walk, so it would be a waste not to enjoy it.

He chuckles to himself, breathes out. Frisk sure made a lot of friends, didn't they?

Papyrus turns a corner, dips into an alley— it's a pretty wide one, a simple gap between buildings.

He strides down it slowly, not really in any kind of hurry. The night is still beautiful; a dark, calm sky, spotted with stars.

It's one of the nicest things, about the surface.

The stars.

Sans loves them.

Papyrus smiles dimly, at the thought. His brother is happy, up here. He spends hours outside, looking up at the sky. Watching the clouds during the day, watching the stars at night.

Everyone is so happy, up here.

Undyne spends day in and out with Alphys— they're the very picture of happiness, and it's adorable watching them simply enjoy each others company.

Toriel is trying to get her own school set up, but the rest of the time she spends home; she bakes, pies and cakes and delicious bread, and all sort of baky-things. She enjoys being surrounded by people. She's even enjoying _Asgore's_ company.

Asgore is, almost always, in the garden. He and Sans seems to have sparked up a friendship, talking casually as Sans drifts away in the grass, and Asgore nurtures his new plants.

And Frisk is, well, _Frisk_. Flittering about and talking to the government, even trying to keep in contact with everyone. They seem genuinely content with their new life.

Everyone's happy.

Papyrus scratches his fingers across bone, itching his smile a notch higher.

Everyone is _happy_.

And then, quite suddenly, his face is slammed into a wall, and his world explodes into bright white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, that sure was a fast update!  
> i've kind of worked up a rough plan for this fic, and i'm kinda _super_ into it. it's very character focused, kind of slice of lifey. it's nice not to do some Serious Plot.  
>  also, hey: if you like ~side characters~ a lot of them will show up! well, i say a lot, but i haven't decided which ones yet. BP, as seen above, and Nice (what i call the Nice Cream Guy), Bratty and Catty. i wanna add Doggo in too, bc i _love him so much_.  
>  anyway, you guys mind Papyrus becoming friends with some of these guys? specifically BP and Doggo.  
> (also: Mettaton will show up later, and become Pap's friend. i hope you guys don't mind them being little shits to each other, bc that's what i wanna write them as.)
> 
> anyho, thanks for reading!!! and super thanks for the comments and kudos!!! ♥ (and bookmarks!! :D)


	3. Chapter 3

Above the whine of pain, there's a voice.

Loud, angry. Hateful.

"—fucking **monsters** —!"

Papyrus' knees gives out under him, or maybe he just doesn't bother staying upright— he slides down the wall, vision spotted with white blitz.

Angry footsteps tap towards him, and there's a whistle of displaced sound— Papyrus braces himself for the blow.

Something _slams_ into his back, against his scapula and spine; he lets the attack push him forward, presses his palm flat against the wall— his skull _thunks_ against the wall.

"—don't _belong_ here!"

Another whistle of air, and Papyrus tips to the left, lands on his elbow; there's a loud _bang_ of metal against stone, and dust showers down over him.

He tips over on his back, winces when pain shoots up from his spine and skull; a human towers over him, sneering down at him with flat teeth. They're clutching a metal pipe in their hand.

Papyrus could, quite easily, beat them back. All he'd have to do is send a bone into their face, and that'd be the end of that.

But he doesn't really _want_ to.

The human rears their weapon back, sends it hurtling down with a shout; it slams into his ribs, and Papyrus jerks with a surprised gasp, vision going out again.

_Stupid_ —

Air whistles, and Papyrus' barely managed to get his elbows under him, when it smashes back down onto his ribs.

One of them _cracks_ loudly, and Papyrus' back thumps back against the pavement, elbows pushed out awkwardly.

He doesn't want to _hurt_ them.

Above the crackling noise of pain, a voice.

" **Hey!** —"

It's angry. Furious, even. But it's familiar.

Papyrus gasps in air, vision bleeding back; the human's still standing above him, pipe over their head. But they're looking down the alley, eyes wide with... fear?

Papyrus sucks in another breath, cranes his head back; the top of his skull brushes over the pavement.

"What the **fuck** do you think you're doing?!"

Flames roar at the mouth of the alley, licking across stone with furious snaps— smoke twists and turns like snakes, and two eyes glows menacingly at the human, pupils slitted.

"You better _fuck off_ right now human," a row of sharp teeth catch the light. "Or I'll _smear you_."

The pipe clatters loudly against the pavement, and then there's the hurried sound of footsteps, retreating down the alley.

The moment the footsteps stops sounding, the flames flicker out, vanish— in fact, suddenly it is just BP in the mouth of the alley, looking downright _aghast_.

"Shit, fuck—" he curses as he scrambles forward, hitting the ground knee-first the moment he's within touching distant. "I knew I should have gone with you, fuck, _fuck_ , are you—?"

Papyrus slides his palms underneath himself, pushes up— he winces a bit as he sits up, but otherwise simply ignores the pain.

"YES, I'M FINE."

BP doesn't seem to hear him— he's still cursing under his breath, and his voice is shaky.

Papyrus turns around, faces BP. He keeps his voice steady. "BP, I AM _FINE_."

BP snaps his eyes up to him, and his pupils are thin slits of colour. " _Fine_?" his voice is bordering on hysteric. "There's cracks! In your _skull_! And—" he gestures frantically towards Papyrus. "That fucking _human_ hit you in your ribs, and with a _pipe_ , and fuck, are any of them broken?"

"NO, THEY'RE _FINE_." Papyrus furiously ignores the twinge in his ribs; right now, he's got to calm BP down.

BP laughs, disbelief colouring his face. "They're _fine_? What kind of defense do you have??"

Papyrus shrugs. "HIGH ENOUGH."

BP's laughter doesn't stop, but it does lower in volume, turning into slightly hysterical chuckles— he rubs both hands across his face, breathes in shakily.

"WHY'D YOU FOLLOW ME?" Papyrus asks.

"Oh—" BP drags his hands down his face, breathes in again. He seems to be calming down. "I, uh—"

"He was worried."

BP jumps with a shriek at the new, unfamiliar voice— whirls around, fur bristling.

The Nice Cream Guy smiles warmly at the both of them, slightly crouched.

"Nice, _damn it_ , you nearly gave me a heart attack!" BP curses, pressing a hand to his chest.

Nice— _Nice?_ — chuckles at that, smile turning sheepish. "Haha, sorry Burgy! Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

... Burgy?

BP huffs out a breath, turns back to Papyrus— he smoothes his fur down irritably. " _Anyway_. I wanted to give you my phone number."

Papyrus blinks. Looks between the two of them. "... WHY?"

"Because he worries!" Nice chirps, before BP can actually answer.

BP hisses indignantly up at Nice. "I do _not_!"

Nice laughs. "Yeah, you do!" he grins, leans forward, closer to Papyrus. His smile is mischievous. "It's really cute."

BP makes a loud, flustered sound, and pushes Nice away from Papyrus; his ears are flat against his head, and he's barring his teeth at Nice.

"You, shut _up_!" he squeaks, and Nice laughs, stumbles back a step. Papyrus watches them in bewilderment.

" _Anyway_ ," BP stresses, glares at Nice out of the corner of his eye. "Do you have your phone on you?"

"... UH, NO?"

BP sighs, but doesn't comment— he fishes out a phone from his pocket, taps the screen. "You remember your number?"

"YEAH," Papyrus says, and rattles it off— BP taps it quickly into his phone.

"Okay, good— I'll send a message so you've got my number."

He puts the phone away, pushes himself to his feet with a quick, graceful movement.

He frowns down at Papyrus. "You sure you're okay? The human _did_ hit you with a fucking _pipe_."

Papyrus waves the comment away. "YEAH, I'M FINE! DOESN'T EVEN HURT."

Nice frowns at him too. "A _pipe_?"

Papyrus smiles as sheepishly as possible, forces himself not to wince as he gets to his feet. His bones strain with pain, and there's an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "IT REALLY DIDN'T HURT," he says. "KINDA FELT LIKE A TAP!"

Nice and BP trades glances, both still frowning— they carry a conversation solely with their eyes, before BP sighs and looks back at him.

"If you're _sure_ —"

Papyrus nods confidently, and BP sighs again. Runs his claws through the fur on top of his head. One of his ears flicker.

"Okay."

Papyrus clicks his teeth, forces his hands down in his pockets.

BP sighs once more, rubs a hand across his face. "Please text me when you get home," he says. "and don't _loiter_."

Nice snickers, though there's still the grease of a frown on his face. "Worry-wart," he says, grinning over at Papyrus, like they're sharing a secret.

BP grumbles, crosses his arms. Mumbles out a "Fuck you Nice."

Papyrus finds himself smiling, and he's not quite sure if he means it or not.

"Anyway," BP shakes himself from the conversation, steps back. "We should probably get back, before C and B starts to plot out romantic escapades."

Nice laughs at that, eyes squinting up again. He's got buckteeth, Papyrus notices. "Yeah, probably!"

Nice steps down the alley, goes backwards so he can wave cheerfully at Papyrus. "Bye!" he calls, and Papyrus raises his hand to wave back, slightly bemused.

BP huffs amusedly, starts down the alley too— he lingers though, keeps on glancing back at Papyrus.

He's halfway to the mouth of the alley, when he stops and turns back towards Papyrus.

"Don't loiter!" he repeats, voice stern. Papyrus surprises himself by laughing.

He hides his grin behind a hand when BP glowers, and waves instead. "I WON'T!" he calls back, and BP squints at him for a few seconds, before abruptly turning around and leaving the alley.

Papyrus waits.

He waits till he's sure they're gone, until he's sure they won't suddenly appear again. And then, when he's confident he's alone, he bends over and spits out blood.

He hacks it up, gasping as pain flares all the way through his body, as his spine screams in protest at the movement, as his skull throbs loudly, as his ribs grinds together.

He gasps in a breath, squeezes his vision shut. Magic flares tightly around his soul, straining to heal the worst of the breaks.

He forces it to a halt, grits his teeth together.

It's not a good idea— he has to wait until he's home, so he won't collapse on the walk home.

Taking a careful breath, Papyrus opens his eyes again; straightens slowly. His spine protests, but really, _everything_ is protesting. It hurts to stand up, to just breathe.

It's really not that bad, he tells himself. It's just some cracks along the back of his skull, one or two fractured ribs— his spine and scapula are probably fine, probably, _probably_.

He exhales slowly. Ribs expanding, spine shifting— he grits down a flinch. Repeats the motion. Inhales, exhales. Again and again, till he's sure he can ignore the pain.

And then he starts walking home.

He leaves through the opposite end from where BP and Nice did, just to be sure he won't run into them again— his mind is too frazzled, and he's not sure he could pretend to be fine, if he ran into them again.

So he twines his way through unfamiliar streets, makes his way over sidewalks he's never seen before; the next time there's an alley cutting through to the right, he takes it.

He still doesn't bother hurrying, though he keeps his mind in the present. A cat watches him lazily from a ledge, and in the distant a dog barks.

Nobody tries to ambush him this time.

He's not sure how long it takes, before he starts to near home. The mountain is close now, so he _knows_ he's almost there.

He doesn't pick up the pace.

A little while later, he makes it.

Papyrus unlocks the door, pads softly inside and closes it behind him.

He's not surprised to see that everything is still dark; nobody's awaken in the time he's been away.

He heads into the kitchen first. Tosses out the note he made, dumps the key back into its cupboard, and takes out a whole package of cereal.

He doesn't bother with milk, or even a bowl— just makes his way upstairs, creeps into his room.

Sans is still asleep. He's once again kicked his blanket off, and his face is buried in his pillow.

Papyrus is pretty sure he's drooling.

Swallowing a snicker, Papyrus throws the blanket back over his brother, and curls up on his own bed.

He doesn't bother changing— he'll do that later, when everything is less painful.

Right now though, he shoves a handful of cereal into his mouth, and picks up his phone.

There's three new messages.

Papyrus blinks in surprise, and scrolls up to the oldest.

[ **this is BP remember to write** ]

Before he forgets, Papyrus saves the number. Scrolls down to the next.

[ **are you home yet??** ]

Next.

[ **shit please tell me you're not dead somewhere in a ditch id never forgive myself** ]

Papyrus can't help the sudden grin that erupts on his face. Nice was right: BP _really is a worry-wart_.

Stifling a chuckle, Papyrus quickly taps out an [ **I'M HOME** ] before shifting to lay more comfortably.

He takes another handful of cereal, and lets his magic do its work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why i'm pumping out chapters so fast, except i have _ideas_. it'll probably die down after the next chapter, tho.  
>  but hey, look! Papyrus made a friend! or, well, got a phone number. that's close enough, right?  
> also, i really like the idea that BP has illusionary magic. so that's what he has.  
> would anybody mind if Catty and Bratty is an item? it would, as the Alphyne, only be in the background. i just kinda hc them as girlfriends, so that's my default.  
> also i deleted a line in the last chapter, regarding what Frisk is up to. it's nothing important, though! just didn't want that to be a thing. (it's towards the very end)
> 
> anyho!! thank you _so much for all the comments like oh my god_. i'm so glad you're enjoying this!!! :'D


	4. Chapter 4

By the time the sun has risen, Papyrus has covered up the worst signs of his little encounter.

The cracks in his skull are mostly gone, and he's pretty sure no one is going to notice the very fine lines that remains behind.

He's washed his other set of clothes, just to be sure, and changed into a knee-long dress, and a long-sleeved sweater. There's no cracks on his legs or hands, so there's no reason to cover _them_ up— plus, the dress is nice and loose, so his ribs won't protest too much.

After checking everything over one last time, then throwing the blanket back over Sans, he goes downstairs.

He dumps the empty cereal box in the trash, and starts fishing around for the ingredients to pancakes.

Papyrus is always the first person to rise, and so, after a few days of cranky mornings and waiting around for breakfast, he had decided to simply make breakfast for everyone.

Toriel, upon first moving in together, had dragged everyone into some cooking lessons, and taught them all some basic, easy to make meals. She'd showed Papyrus how to _actually_ make spaghetti, then also shown Undyne when he had let it slip that she was the one who'd taught him. Turned out, the only one who knew how to make actual _food_ was Asgore.

Papyrus would have loved to make spaghetti for everyone, but as Toriel had pointed out the first morning, when everyone found a plate of delicious smelling spaghetti before then, spaghetti wasn't really _breakfast_ food.

So, pancakes.

Papyrus whips up the batter in seconds, finds a pan in one of the cupboards, and starts on his first pancake.

Making food has always been something Papyrus has liked doing. There's a certain technique to it, especially as a monster— infusing the ingredients with magic, and then making sure the energy doesn't leak out of the food. It's always fascinating, feeling the magic bubble beneath his spatula or spoon, watching it feed into itself and _grow_.

Papyrus flips the pancake.

It's already starting to brown, a nice golden flake; he finds a plate, turns the oven on low, and flips the pancake again.

The first one, as it always does, turns out rather wonky— Papyrus doesn't bother putting that one in the oven; he picks it apart as he starts on the next one, and eats it piece by piece.

Asgore is usually the first one up, closely followed by Frisk and Toriel. Frisk and Asgore usually likes them soft, not too crunchy, while Toriel prefers them crunchy.

He alternates for the next few, before switching to only soft ones— the oven is nice and warm, and by the time there's muffled steps outside the kitchen, there's a small pile of pancakes.

Asgore, as it turns out, is quite a morning person— his fur might be tousled and eyes a bit sleepy, but isn't groggily walking into anything.

"Good morning, Papyrus," he greets, voice a warm rumble, and Papyrus chirps out an energetic _MORNING_! before flipping another pancake over.

Asgore hums appreciatively, stepping closer to peer over Papyrus shoulder. "That looks delicious, as always."

Papyrus _nyehehe's_ in thanks, before stepping aside.

Asgore gets out the plate of pancakes, as he always does; he never bothers with any kind of oven mitts, simply taking it out with his bare paws.

Asgore sets the table, as silence settles between them— it's almost comfortable, with the sunlight streaming in from the window and the sound of oil and batter sizzling away.

"How long have you been up?" Asgore asks, as he almost always does.

"AN HOUR OR TWO," Papyrus says, flipping over another pancake. He's back to making crunchy ones. "NOT LONG."

Asgore _hm_ 's, and sets the final plate down. He opens the fridge, pulls out milk, and juice. Jam.

"Did you sleep alright?"

Papyrus throws the finished pancake over on another quickly growing pile of them, and pours up some more batter. It's almost empty.

"YEP! YOU?"

There's a patter of footsteps, and Frisk steps into the kitchen, sleepily rubbing at their eyes.

Asgore smiles. "Good morning Frisk. Did you sleep well?"

Papyrus doesn't see what Frisk's says, too busy looking back down at the pancake— there's a quiet rustle, and then a _hup_.

"To answer the both of you," Asgore rumbles, a smile in his voice. "I slept just fine."

Papyrus flips over the pancake, smiles— he taps the spatula against the fluffy surface, and shifts his weight over on the other foot.

"IS TORIEL AWAKE?" he asks Frisk, looking over his shoulder.

Frisk is clinging to Asgore, held up by his big arms— their hands are linked around his neck, and there's a sleepy look on their face.

They nod at his question, a yawn slipping out.

Asgore chuckles, and runs his claws tenderly through Frisk's hair. "Then I presume she'll join us soon?"

Frisk nods again, snuggling into Asgore's warm embrace.

As predicted, just a moment later there's the sound of feet over wood, and Toriel appears in the doorway.

"Good morning Papyrus," she greets, and gives him a smile. "It smells delicious."

Papyrus gives her a bright smile, dumping another pancake atop the pile. "THANK YOU, MISS TORIEL!"

"Please," she says, as she always does. "It is just Toriel."

Frisk wiggles out of Asgore's embrace, throws themselves at Toriel— she chuckles warmly, ruffling their hair fondly. "And good morning, my child."

Papyrus doesn't bother paying attention to their conversation, instead pouring out the last of the batter— Asgore steps up beside him, a smile on his face, and takes the pan from him.

"We'll wait," he says, and Papyrus smiles.

"THANKS BIG GUY!" he says, and slips out of the kitchen; from upstairs there's the sound of Undyne smooching Alphys awake.

Papyrus takes the stairs two at a time, ignores the way his spine and ribs _jerk_ with surprised pain.

Sans is, as expected, still asleep.

Before Papyrus can wake him up, a little flash of light catches his attention; it's his phone, lying on his bed.

Well, from the sound of it, Undyne and Alphys is still busy getting out of bed, so it isn't like he _has_ to hurry.

He taps his phone alive, blinks confusedly at the message.

[ **morning bone boy** ]

It's BP.

Papyrus tilts his head, frowns. Why is BP texting him? Especially just to say _morning_?

Well, weird as it may be, no reason to be rude— he taps out a quick [ **MORNING!!!** ] and sends it off.

Hesitates.

[ **BONE BOY???** ]

He drops the phone, turns around to drag Sans out of bed— but before he can even take one step, his phone vibrates against his sheets.

... That was fast.

[ **cuz youre a skeleton** ]

Papyrus huffs out an amused puff of air, picks up his phone again.

[ **I AM AWARE!! BUT CAN'T YOU JUST CALL ME PAPYRUS?** ]

He stares at the screen, watching the little words stand there. He's not sure why he isn't dropping it, why he isn't shaking Sans awake— Undyne is up by now, tramping around and shouting wordless nonsense from time to time.

[ **nicknames are cool skeleboy** ]

Papyrus snorts, though he doesn't mean to.

[ **SKELEBOY??? REALLY THAT'S AWFUL!!** ]

Undyne must have finished dressing, by now— he's sure he can hear Alphys' voice, low and mumbling, and really, he should be waking Sans.

[ **then you come up with one** ]

He hums, taps his finger against the screen— there's a _thump-thump_ from outside, and this time, Papyrus does drop the phone back down, and spins around to Sans.

He can answer later.

"SANS," he says, rips the blanket off— not that it wasn't already halfway off, kicked away by Sans' relentless turning.

Sans mumbles into his pillow.

"SANS, GET UP!!"

Sans raises one hand, waves it limply. "i'm up," he says, voice groggy.

Papyrus rolls his eyes, takes one step back.

Sans _shoots_ off the bed, flying up in the air and jerking to a stop when he's two meters up— his eyes are tiny pinpricks of shocked white, and he stares baffled down at Papyrus.

Papyrus smiles, brightly, and lets go off his magic.

"THERE," he says, as Sans hits the mattress with an _oomph_. "NOW YOU'RE AWAKE, NYEHEHE!!"

Sans grunts something out into his sheet, and Papyrus _nyehehe's_ his way out of the room, ignoring the muffled cursing his brother sends his way.

He goes down the stairs quickly, not quite running but definitely hurrying— behind him there's a scuttle of noise, and clumsy feet stumbling on wood.

"papyrus!"

Papyrus laughs, ducks into the kitchen— everyone is seated around the table, patiently (and not so patiently, in Undyne's case) waiting for him and Sans.

"HI!" he chirps, as innocently as he possible can— Sans' thumps violently down the stairs, and then Papyrus is flailing forward.

"oops, didn't see you there paps," Sans says as he casually walks around him. He's grinning. "my bad."

Papyrus windmills his arms, manages to regain his balance before he brains himself on the back of the chair. His ribs and spine sting, but he just laughs.

"What'd you do?" Undyne asks, attention briefly dragged away from the pancakes. She's grinning too.

"he was being a little shit," Sans comments, lightly, from where he's dragging out a chair beside Toriel. "as usual."

Papyrus _nyeh_ 's mockingly, and drags out the free chair between Asgore and Undyne. "I WAS SIMPLY DOING MY DUTY AS YOUR DESIGNATED WAKER!"

<Did you dunk him?> Frisk asks from between Toriel and Asgore, an amused smile already on their face.

Papyrus grins back. "YEP!"

Sans groans as Frisk starts to laugh, ducking their head to smother the almost-sound in their hands.

"thanks paps," he says, resting his cheek in one hand. "you've destroyed my cool and mysterious reputation."

"WELL, THAT REPUTATION WAS ALL SLANDER! AND LIES!"

"Oh my god, can we just _eat_?!" Undyne breaks in, loudly, before Sans can bat back.

They dig in, and a comfortable silence falls over them, only occasionally broken by somebody asking for the juice, or the sugar— Papyrus eats his pancake slowly, piece by piece.

Frisk is eating theirs with their hands, strawberry jam and powdered sugar sticking to the tip of their nose.

That reminds him— "BP SAYS HI," he says, breaking the lull that's fallen over the table.

Frisk blinks, looks up at him with a vaguely puzzled expression. Recognition flashes in their eyes after a second, however, and they dump their pancake on their plate to excitedly sign out <How is he?>

"HE SEEMED GOOD," Papyrus says, which _is_ the truth— the cat monster had seemed genuinely happy, at ease with his surroundings.

<Was he with someone?> Frisk asks, leaning in over the table— there's a glint in their eyes, that Papyrus recognizes.

He smiles. It's kind of endearing, how much Frisk _wants_ everyone to be happy. How much effort they put into remember stuff about people; about what they want, need. Hopes for.

"YEAH," Papyrus prods the pancake on his plate, shifts it around a bit. "HE WAS WITH, UH, THE NICE CREAM GUY—" Frisk's face _lights up_ , eyes nearly sparkling, and Papyrus laughs, rests his elbows on the table. "AND ALSO ANOTHER CAT MONSTER? AND AN ALLIGATOR, I DIDN'T REALLY TALK TO THEM THOUGH—"

"Oh!" Alphys cuts in, a surprised expression on her face. "Th-that was probably C-catty and Bratty!"

Frisk nods rapidly. <That's good! That means their hang out was a success!>

They pump a fist in the air, grinning happily.

"OH, A HANG OUT?" Papyrus asks, and Alphys leans into the table, curiosity lighting up her eyes; Undyne is leaning against her back, chewing softly.

<Yeah! Catty and Bratty was gonna hang out with Bur— BP, after he got off from work, which, I'm surprised _happened_ —>

Frisk frowns, taps their chin.

"M-maybe they did it later?" Alphys suggest, patting the arm Undyne's slung around her middle. "After, uh, everyone got to the surface?"

<Maybe> Frisk relents, leaning back in their seat.

Their face softens into a smile, a happy little thing. <I'm glad he's happy now, though. He was so unhappy!>

The conversation fizzles out again, and soon enough, everyone's done— Papyrus waves everyone off, insists he'll clean up.

He doesn't really mind doing it; there's something calming about rinsing off the plates and putting them in the dishwater. Putting everything back in their proper place, and wiping down the table. There's even a few pancakes left, which Papyrus wraps up in some tin foil and sticks in the fridge.

It takes barely any time at all, to finish cleaning up the kitchen; sunshine is streaming in from the window, and bird song creeps in from outside.

Papyrus breathes in, exhales slowly.

His ribs are aching, his spine is _hurting_ — there's a sharp taste in his mouth again, and Papyrus is glad he didn't eat anything beside one pancake.

He goes upstairs slowly. There's no reason to hurry, and his bones thank him for the much slower pace, pain dimming till he barely notices it at all.

Their room is empty, which isn't surprising— Sans usually beelines directly for the gardens after breakfast, lying down in the grass and taking a nap.

Papyrus huffs, sits down on his bed carefully. His brother is _such_ a lazybone.

A blink of light catches his attention, and he picks up his phone, taps it alive. There's two messages from BP.

He doesn't open them.

He's not sure why. Just as he isn't sure _why_ he had given BP his number, _why_ he had written him back— it doesn't make any sense. Why would BP write to him? Why would BP worry about whether he was okay or not?

Papyrus frowns. The screen flickers to black, and with a sigh, he places it face down on his side of the desk.

It doesn't matter.

Papyrus tilts himself to the side, tipping himself on the bed. His spine hisses with pain, but he ignores it.

His ceiling looks down at him patiently, and he closes his eyes.

The room is silent.

He breathes into it, slow and relaxed— his hands rests just below his false ribs, fingers laced together.

A quick tap on his door jerks him back, and he sits up slowly, not surprised to see Frisk there.

"FRISK," he greets. "WHAT'S UP?"

Frisk doesn't step into the room— they remain on the threshold, one hand on the frame, the other curled around their middle.

They hesitate.

Slowly holds up their hands.

<Papyrus....>

They pause, hands stilling in the air— they chew at their lip, a distant look crossing their face.

Papyrus doesn't interrupt.

<I'm here,> they say, face suddenly clearing. <And you can _always_ talk to me. You know that, right? >

Papyrus blinks. Throws on his best puzzled face. "YES? BUT WHAT'S THIS ABOUT??"

He resists the urge to curl his fingers into bone— sits as calmly as he can, breathes.

Frisk frowns. They pause, chest rising, falling.

Then, they shrug one shoulder sharply. <Just felt like I had to say it.>

Papyrus smiles. "WELL, I'LL BE SURE TO REMEMBER IT!"

Frisk smiles. It's unsure, not quite meant. <Okay. Good.>

They hesitate again; tips their weight back on their heels, teeth chewing at their lip. Their eyes are on him, but they're not seeing anything.

"FRISK," Papyrus says, an amused edge to his voice.

Frisk blinks, shakes their head; they smile, a tiny bit sheepish, and steps back. <Sorry,> they say. <Bye Paps.>

They close the door, and Papyrus waits; listens to the soft fall of their footsteps, the stairs creaking. A door opens, then closes.

And then he's alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey look, mostly fluff! :D  
> this is mostly filler, except it isn't, of course- gotta lead up to that next chapter. >:D  
> also, writing seven characters in _one scene_ is torture and i'm never doing that again, if i can avoid it. (i probably can't. but let's hope)
> 
> anyho- thank you SO MUCH for the comments and kudos and???? i'm still in awe, that anybody even likes this thing. what a weird world!


	5. Chapter 5

_Petals._

_Vines wrapping around his bones, squeezing, crushing— splintering across the forest floor, snow in his mouth, in the cracks._

_"I'm bored," says the Flower, snapping his femur out of place, and he howls and howls and howls, gasping and clawing at the snow and rock and all he can taste is blood and dust and blood and blood and blood—_

_Vertebra snapping again and again, plastic knife digging into his bones, slow and relentless— small hands and blank eyes and tears streaming down their face, and he failed of course he did he **always does** —_

_"Bones are so fragile!" the Flower chirps, wrapping vines around his spine and crawling them into his skull, into the gaps between each vertebra, and each rib, and he cannot move, he cannot **move** —_

_"A GAME," he chokes out, smiling, wrapping broken fingers around vines; he hurts, he hurts, he hurts— but he always does, it always hurts, it's broken and fractured and the Flower peers down at him, curious and he smiles happily, genuinely._

_Femur out of place, every bone in his right foot broken, and he smiles and walks anyway, bites down every hiss of pain— a game, and it is fun, it is, it is—_

_Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream—_

Reality bleeds back slowly, haltingly— his mind spins and twists, and petals brush against the inside of his skull, vines curl in between his ribs and _dust is all he tastes_ —

Something snaps.

Real and bright, and his mind stops, quiets. He breathes in shakily, pain ebbing away till it is just a beat, till the nightmare is gone and it is just him.

Sans snores.

Papyrus is sitting up, blanket kicked off and crumbled at the end of his bed. It is night, and it is quiet.

He breathes out.

His ribs and spine sting, but it is a dull pain, now— nothing next to the persistent _throb-throb_ of his hand.

He's clutching at his right, fingers hooked around his pinkie— he bites down a hiss as he releases his fingers from it.

Broken.

Twisted and jerked out of place, magic straining to keep the small bones together; he sighs, closes his eyes.

Of _course_ he'd break his own finger.

He rubs at his face with his left, swings his legs out of bed— the pain flares up again, but he ignores it, as he always does.

The clock blinks into the dark, joined by a small, almost squashed, light fluttering from his phone. He's been asleep for around an hour.

He hasn't checked his phone since he put it face down yesterday; he's not sure why he's so surprised to see ten messages from BP, flashing angrily up at him as he taps the device awake.

He sighs, and with a few quick swipes, starts reading from the top.

[ **it isn't so easy is it** ]

[ **ok im guessing you left?? thx for leaving me hanging** ]

A few hours passes, before he texts again.

[ **did u forget about your phone or something?? how** ]

[ **i mean im basically welded to my phone. nice says im weird but it's easier to talk to people online** ]

[ **ok this might come of as kinda weird but plz tell me ur still alive???** ]

[ **or was i being a jerk?? i didnt mean the whole 'leaving me hanging' as anything mean?? im sorry if it came off like that plz just tell me ur alive you can totally just send a few dots i wont be angry** ]

More time passes, and the rests are only a few hours old.

[ **nice just told me to calm down and that youre probably just away or u feel asleep and fuck i know im just being stupid i always get so fucking worked up but damn it you got hit with a PIPE OKAY i am allowed to be a worried idiot** ]

[ **please papyrus just answer me** ]

[ **what am i supposed to do if youre dust?? tell frisk that i totally knew you got hurt but didnt do shit bc u told me u were fine???** ]

[ **shit my hands are fucking shaking please papyrus just be okay please please please** ]

Papyrus stares down at the last text.

He's not sure what he's feeling, how he's supposed to react— the words are so obviously anxious and scared, but—

[ **WHY ARE YOU SO WORRIED ABOUT ME?** ]

He sends it, and, before it can even fully finish going through, continues.

[ **AND DON'T LIE.** ]

He waits. Puts the phone in his lap and looks over at Sans; his brother is hugging all of his blanket to his chest, a weird little ball of squished fabric.

Papyrus looks away; down at his finger, at the twisted, out of place, bits of bone.

He curls it— bone scrape against bone, and pain blurs through his mind, catching his breath and leaving him shaking; his vision smears, and he stretches his finger.

Pain.

It's so easy to let himself be dragged along; to blank his mind and feel nothing except the burst of _painpainpain_ —

The phone in his lap vibrates.

He's not sure how much time has passed; doesn't care. He stills his right hand as best as he can, waits till the pain goes back down to a throb.

Reads the message.

[ **i'm not sure how to put this but i'll try also please don't be mad??? or ignore this?? so ok i get really frantic about people i care about. one time nice was going somewhere and he forgot to text me when he got there and i ended up freaking out bc what if he had gotten hurt or was in trouble or something??? and sometimes it kinda also counts for people i personally don't really know or care that much about?? like you seem like a really awesome dude and i would love to be your friend but i dont know you yet so i cant say i care about you personally? (im sorry that sounds really mean) but frisk do and they're like the best person i know and i dont want them to be sad and so i got kinda... worried about you?? bc frisk fucking adores you you're like their favourite person. and thats why i texted you** ]

Frisk.

Of course.

He closes his right hand, breathes in, out. Answers.

[ **I'M NOT MAD. ALSO, I'M OKAY. I AM ONE HUNDRED PROCENT FINE, HONESTLY. SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY! SO PLEASE DON'T BOTHER WORRYING ABOUT ME? OR TEXTING, NYEHE. I'M FINE!** ]

He waits a second— reads it over twice, before sending it off and laying his phone back onto the desk.

He gets up.

He walks quietly downstairs, flexing his right hand as he walks— he's wearing his sleepwear, short-sleeves and slacks, and he scratches the fingers of his left over his humerus, manages to catch the edge of a crack.

The kitchen is dark and empty, and he snaps off a piece of bone, presses it against his palm.

He opens the fridge and takes the leftover pancakes out.

Papyrus doesn't bother with a plate; simply takes the stack of tin-foil wrapped pancakes in hand, and walks out of the kitchen.

There's a glass door next to the stairs, leading out into the garden— Papyrus opens it, and steps outside.

The piece of bone in his hand is slowly fading, turning to dust against his palm— he closes his eyes, savours the feeling.

Dust.

Fading and crumbling, turning into nothing— he uncurls his hand, and the breeze catches the dust, sends bits of him into the wind.

The sky is black with night, stars blinking. Wind tugs at his shirt.

He pushes the door back into the frame, and steps further outside.

The garden is grassy; young flowers still growing, a few bushes, even a tree— Papyrus drops himself down onto the grass, dumps the pancakes beside him, and looks up.

His breath shakes out of him.

Stupid.

He is _so stupid_.

He crosses his legs, bends forward and presses his face into his hands; he curls his fingers into the back and top of his skull, wheezes out a breath.

Idiotic _child_ , of course nobody would _care about him_.

It wasn't like he had honestly thought BP cared about _him_ — it had just been a nice thought, an idle idea.

He's _nothing_ , nobody, unimportant, a waste of time and space— his breath hitches, and he drags his fingers over his skull, digging in the tips.

His pinkie finger screams in pain, and he makes a point of digging it even harder into his skull— it's like he's choking on air and tears, and he can't breathe, he _can't breathe_.

It would probably just be better if he didn't—

He wrenches his hands away, gasps in a breath of air he doesn't want— tears drip down his face, and he wipes them away with shaking hands.

"Stop it," he says, out loud, tries to make his voice as stern as possible. "You're being a _baby_."

He puts his hands down in his lap, breathes in. Out.

Not yet. He can't leave yet, he has to be _sure_ —

Sans would probably be okay, wouldn't he? Now that there's no more resets, he would have no reason to be _crushed_. Sure, he'd be sad at first— but that doesn't mean anything, really, that's just Sans' personality.

Sans would be fine without him.

Papyrus scrubs at his face.

"Stop," he says again, because maybe this time it'll help.

It doesn't, but that's not surprising.

Instead of clawing at his face, no matter how nice that would be, he tilts backwards, plops down on his back.

The stars blink down at him, and he focuses his attention on them; blinking and blinking, and they look a lot like the gems in the Underground, high up above everything.

He can't touch the stars though.

He breathes out.

The tears have stopped, his mind has quieted— there's nothing left but the pain, a steady and familiar companion.

An old friend.

He laughs at that, props himself up— shakes out his limbs, and crosses his legs, picking up the pancakes.

He pretty much devours the first one, not even bothering to taste it as he chomps down; he sticks the second one in his mouth, chews idly at it as he inspects his right hand.

The bones in his pinkie are completely wrecked— wrenched out of place, grinding into each other every time he even _breathes_. There's tiny cracks along the base of his finger, cutting down to his metacarpal bone.

It's not _too bad_ , really.

He plops the pancake back down onto the stack, chews his bite finished. He'll have to make sure to do it right; rebreaking your own finger isn't really _fun_.

He curls his fingers around his pinkie, breathes in— grits his teeth, exhales, and _jerks_.

The pain slams into his rib, quick and ruthless— he curls inwards, breathes in shakily, and lets go off his finger.

It throbs.

But it's a dull one, and the pain is already fading away; he blinks to clear his vision, rights himself.

Picks back up his pancake, and eats.

He tries not to think of anything, as he polishes off the leftover pancakes; simply watches the grass bend in the wind.

When he's finished, he crumples up the tin-foil, and gets up.

He pads back to the house, scratches at his right humerus— he can barely feel the pain, so he wedges a finger in under a crack, and tugs.

It barely hurts.

The house is still quiet and still, and he throws the tin-foil out, then stands in the kitchen, unsure of what to do.

He doesn't want to go upstairs.

He doesn't want to take a walk.

He snaps off another piece of bone, lays it flat in his palm and watches.

He doesn't want to do anything.

The bone chip dissolves slowly; crumbles into dust, fades away till it's nothing but tiny pieces of _dirt_.

Dying.

That's the only thing he wants right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -gently lays this here-  
> i promised angst, and here is some.  
> the next chapter will probably take more time, since i haven't figured out what's going to happen in the next one. also, i should really finish up Ghosts Ain't Dead, haha.  
> hope you enjoyed this pain.
> 
> and, as always: thank you so much for the comments and kudos and yes i'm going to say this every time okay, i'm always so surprised that you guys like this??? also i didn't get around to answering any of the comments, but i'll probably just do that later?? or maybe i shouldn't, i always feel kinda bad that i'm kind of boosting my comment count..  
> ANYWAY thank you so much. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

_"What are these?"_

_Flowey's voice is curious._

_His vines are wrapped loosely around Papyrus, an almost, not quite, hug— it's a comfortable hold, and Papyrus had been dozing, mind blissfully quiet._

_Flowey's vines are curled around Papyrus' humerus, ends tracing the lines of ragged cracks and badly healed fractures._

_"... Does it matter?"_

_Flowey_ hm _'s absently, flickering a vine-tip against a crack— it doesn't hurt at all._

_"I don't know," he says, petals tilting thoughtfully— his vines curl closer around Papyrus, and he pats them comfortingly._

_Flowey's face remains thoughtful, and the silence falls back over them— Papyrus doesn't bother trying to hide the scars, or pull away. Simply rests his weight in Flowey's hold, and waits._

_After a minute or so, Flowey speaks back up._

_"I think so."_

_"Oh," says Papyrus, and looks away._

_His soul feels weirdly heavy— like a rope around his neck._

_He doesn't know what to say, but he knows he has to say_ something _._

_Silence settles around them again, and this time it is stifling, uncomfortable; something Papyrus' time with Flowey never really_ is _._

_"Do they hurt?" Flowey asks, suddenly, and a tension Papyrus hadn't even noticed, slips away._

_Questions he can answer._

_"Not really," he says, looks back at Flowey— he's still looking at his humerus, the curious expression still on his face._

_"Who made them?"_

_Papyrus clicks his teeth together, looks away again. Something burns at him; shame, loathing, guilt. It sits on his ribs like weights, and the only reason Papyrus doesn't start breaking off bone, is that he physically_ can't _._

_"I did," he says, eventually, because he has no other choice._

_He doesn't look at Flowey. He's not sure he could handle seeing whatever emotion that's on it. Disgust. Pity. Maybe nothing at all._

_His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes._

_He can't lose Flowey._

_He can't lose his **best friend** —_

_He'd gladly take disgust or pity, as long as Flowey remained his friend._

_"Why?"_

_Flowey's voice is void of emotion, and the sound of it jerks Papyrus out of his thoughts. He glances, quickly, at Flowey's face, but looks away again._

_It's like he's choking on nothing, like somebody's put knives in his mouth._

_"Does it matter?" he asks, and his voice sounds wrong, even to his own ears._

_"No," Flowey says, and his voice is— displeased._

_Vines curl around Papyrus' cheeks, gently turns his head; Flowey's mouth is set in a thin line, and there's something vaguely like_ pain _in his eyes._

_"But, promise me you won't do it again."_

_Papyrus' breath struggles against his ribs, drag painfully across bone. His eyes sting._

_"I can't," he says, honestly. "I can't promise that, Flowey."_

_Flowey bares sharp teeth he didn't have a second ago, and his eyes are both angry, and—_

_A tear roll down Papyrus' cheek._

_"Try," Flowey says, voice hard to hide the threads of genuine_ worry _in his voice. "or I'll rip you to bits."_

_Papyrus laughs. It sounds brittle, shakes too much— he thinks maybe he's crying._

_"Okay," he says, because he can_ try _, can't he?_

"Hey Pap."

Papyrus plops the box of rotini back on the shelf, peers questioningly over at Undyne.

She's leaning against the shopping cart, idly drumming her claws on the cart handle.

"You okay?"

Papyrus blinks. Sets his face into a puzzled frown, and tilts his head.

"YES? WHY?"

Undyne frowns, and her eye loses focuses, looks at nothing as she turns over her thoughts.

"Are you lying to me?"

"NO," Papyrus says, steps over to the cart to dump a package of noodles in. "WHY WOULD I LIE ABOUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT?"

Undyne shrugs; her claws goes _click-click_ on the handle.

"Are you sure? You've been..." she pauses, bares her teeth in a grimace. Papyrus stifles a giggle. "kinda distant lately."

Papyrus scratches at his ulna, lets a half-frown form on his face. "I'VE JUST, BEEN THINKING A LOT?"

Undyne's attention snaps back to him, and he smoothes his fingers over the scratches, lets his gaze drift away.

There's a package of bucatini just to the left of them, and he peers at it.

"About what?" Undyne asks, and her voice is tight.

He doesn't have to lie, not really.

"JUST— ABOUT WHAT I SHOULD DO NOW."

Undyne leans closer; she hesitates between reaching out and staying put, and Papyrus quirks his almost-frown into an almost-smile.

"BUT IT'S FINE! I CAN TAKE MY TIME, YOU KNOW?"

Undyne relaxes back in her position, smiles. It's a tad softer than her usual toothy ones, and Papyrus' smile softens into something almost genuine.

"Yeah," she agrees. "You can."

She shifts back onto her heels, pushes her palms against the cart handle— it gently hits Papyrus' in the ribs.

"Okay!" she shouts. "Enough talking! We gotta get _groceries_!!"

Papyrus _nyehehe_ 's, grips the cart by the end, and shifts it out of Undyne's grip, before pushing it quickly forward again.

"YES! LET US RETURN TO OUR _FOOD ADVENTURE_!"

Undyne laughs, catches the cart by the handle. " _Food_ adventure? Really?"

Papyrus grins, wide and bright. "IT MAKES IT SOUND A LOT COOLER!"

She barks out another loud, bright laugh, and steps forward; starts down the aisle, pushing the cart. "I guess you're right! C'mon then! Onto our _food adventure_!"

Her voice breaks into giggles at the last two words, and Papyrus steps in beside her, taps their elbows together.

She throws him a grin, freckles lighting up on her cheeks.

"You really love her, don't you?"

The words slip out, too genuine and open; his voice isn't loud, and he's _screwed it up_ , said it _too early_ , you stupid—

Her face softens. "Yeah," she breathes out, shoulders relaxing. Her smile is small, but _so happy_.

"I really do."

He smoothes away the pain, smiles.

"I'm glad," he says, and he means it.

In the back of his mind, he wonders how he'll do it.

 

 

_"Why do you have these?"_

_Flowey's voice is sharp. His vines squeezes around Papyrus' humerus, tiny barbs scratching at the cracks._

_Papyrus looks at them, and lets his breath catch._

_"I—" he stops, clicks his teeth. His fingers curl. "Does it matter?"_

_Flowey's gaze pins him like he's a butterfly, and Papyrus turns his arm, barbs scratching across bone._

_Flowey's gaze drifts back to it; his vine loosens, barbs disappearing. His face almost seems dejected._

_"No," he says, slowly, like he doesn't quite believe he's saying it. "I guess not."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when chapter 4 was build up to chapter 5? yeah, this (and the next few chapters) are build up. it's gonna hurt. :)  
> also!! surprise!!! Papyrus and Flowey friendship!! it's very much a central thing to this fic, though it won't show up properly till later chapters. 
> 
> anyway: as always, sO MANY THANKS FOR THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS AND I'M SO BAFFLED??? why do you guys like this so much, omg. also, i'm still not sure if i should respond to comments????? i feel bad when i don't, but i also feel bad when i do. what a dilemma. also, the next chapter will, again, take a while- i'm finishing up Ghosts first, and the only reason this chapter is even up, is that i wrote it a while ago. but, i got a rough plan for this fic now!! so yay.  
> anyho, i hope you enjoyed this not as good as usual chapter!! :D personally, i loved writing the Flowey and Pap interactions.


	7. Chapter 7

It's the day before Grillby's big opening, and everyone from the Underground's been invited to celebrate Grillby's being the first monster owned establishment on the Surface.

When Sans had told him, grinning widely and happily, Papyrus hadn't had the will to deny Sans this— his brother had looked so happy to share this with him, so he had sighed and grudgingly told Sans that, _fine_ , he'd come!

Now, walking steps behind everyone else, Papyrus is starting to regret that decision.

He's not sure how he ended up walking behind everyone else. He had started out walking beside Sans, content to listen to his brother blabber on and on about how things were going at Grillby's, and how Grillby was going to do this and that; it wasn't often his brother got excited about things, and Papyrus had missed the sound of his brother's voice when he got like that.

But then, suddenly, he wasn't walking beside Sans anymore— Toriel was talking with his brother, and then Asgore was there too, and suddenly Papyrus was trailing behind, looking at his friends being happy and content and—

He felt... relieved.

"oh!" Sans slaps his palm against Asgore's arm, points excitedly forward— a building looms just ahead, red bricks and huge windows, a cobbled roof. A sign spelling _Grillby's_ in curved letters sits above the door, and the windows are filled with moving silhouettes.

"isn't it cool?" Sans asks, just in general, smiling widely— he pushes his hands into his pockets. For once, he's not wearing his thread-bare, iconic, blue coat. Instead, he's wearing an almost formal coat in deep blue, a shirt that's actually been _washed_ within the last five days, and pants. And shoes. Can't forget the _actual shoes_.

Papyrus actually kind of proud of him.

"It looks nice," Asgore says.

"c'mon," Sans wraps his fingers around Asgore's, then Toriel's, wrists, and drags the two of them with him. "let's get inside!"

Everyone follows— Undyne and Alphys, hand-in-hand, and Frisk, who's wearing a suit and a smile; Papyrus trails behind, not quite sure why his soul feels so twisted up.

Inside, it's _packed_.

Monsters are everywhere. Bustling back and forth, laughing and talking over each other; there's tables and couches and booths, and Papyrus blinks, and suddenly Sans and everyone are gone— disappeared into the crowd.

Papyrus hunches in on himself, wrapping both arms around his ribs.

He recognizes no one.

No, okay, that's not true— he recognizes the Dogs, all sitting around one big, circular table. The Snowdin Inn Keeper and her family, in one corner, Nice leaning against the table— and, a few tables over, BP talking with the two monsters from that night: Catty and Bratty, Alphys had called them.

Something burns behind his teeth, and Papyrus ducks through the crowd, following along the wall until he comes upon an empty, lonely table, pushed up against the wall.

He sits down.

He doesn't know what to do with himself.

He scans the crowd, looking for Asgore's huge, curving horns— he spots them up by the bar, and Papyrus sighs, sliding down in his seat.

There's no doubt in his mind that Sans is up there, talking contently with Grillby and the usual crowd from Snowdin.

He's alone, then.

Papyrus sighs again, rubs both hands across his face— Undyne and Alphys will probably break away soon enough, and then he can hunt them down, but—

He doesn't really _want_ to.

He puts his elbows on the table, leans his weight there— he curls his hands around the upper parts of his humeri, taps his fingers against the bone.

He's wearing long-sleeves, as he always does these days.

It's probably a good thing, because otherwise he'd start to pick the bone off— he'd make the cracks and fractures worse, and it's not a good idea to start dusting parts of himself in the middle of a _party_.

So, instead, he taps at the cracks, sending small jolts of pain up through his bones.

Papyrus lets his mind drift.

He looks out over the crowd, not seeing anything at all— his mind spins circles around him, picking away at the question he's been thinking about for days now.

_How?_

"Papyrus?"

Papyrus jumps, mind snapping to a halt and attention forcefully dragging itself back to reality— he inhales sharply, blinks his eyes. His vision slides back, and someone is standing by his table.

It's— Doggo?

"UH— DOGGO! HI!"

He smoothes his palms over the table, smiles.

Doggo is squinting, right leg twitching restlessly— he's holding what's probably a beer in one paw, and both of his ears are flickering.

"Hey," he tilts his head. "Mind if I sit?"

"OF COURSE NOT!" Papyrus leans back in his seat, curls his arms close to his chest. His smile feels even more forced than usual.

Doggo, Papyrus has long since learnt, is observant.

Doggo grunts, sits the beer down, and pulls out a chair— his nose twitches, and Papyrus hopes, desperately, that he's not dusting, _or_ bleeding anywhere.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Doggo says, casually— his leg is still twitching, though that's not a surprise. Doggo is almost always in motion in some small way.

"YEAH, WELL," Papyrus shrugs; shifts his smile to sheepish. "SANS DRAGGED ME ALONG, NYEHEHE."

Doggo grimaces slightly, just as he always does when somebody mentions Sans. Papyrus stifles a giggle.

"Why aren't you with him, then?"

Papyrus barely manages to catch his smile before it drops.

Doggo's eyes are focused, sharp— Papyrus forces himself not to look away.

"WELL," his voice comes out weaker than he'd have liked. "YOU, UH, KNOW ME!! I DON'T REALLY, UH—"

He stops.

Doggo is looking at him attentively, patiently, and Papyrus doesn't know why, but suddenly he doesn't want to lie. Not so brazenly.

He drops the bright smile; lets it hang softly onto his face, and leans forward, rests all of his weight on the table.

"I'm really just a bit tired," he says, and that's not a lie. "So I'd rather sit here!"

Doggo cocks his head. "Everything alright?"

Papyrus resists the urge to laugh.

"Yeah! Everything's fine!"

And really, that's not— that's not a lie. Everything _is_ fine. Everyone's happy.

"You sure?" Doggo asks, and there's doubt in his voice; Papyrus nods. Pushes down the urge to pick at bone.

"Yeah."

Doggo doesn't believe him— he wears it openly on his face, eyes narrowed and ears turned back, and Papyrus can't help the rush of guilt, the way his soul twists and his breath chokes.

Doggo doesn't even _know him._

He stands up. Chair scraping across the floor, and Doggo's ears flicker forward, eyes snatching up to follow him, and they're surprised, worried—

"I'm going outside!!"

He can barely keep his voice stable, can barely keep the smile on his face— he's choking, he's _choking_ , and he doesn't wait for Doggo to react; just whirls away and pushes his way through the crowd.

He can't think, can barely move— there's so many people and they're so close, and his shoulders bump into theirs, and he can't even find the words to apologise, can't do anything but _move move move move_.

The door— he pushes it open, slips outside, and stumbles forward.

Air. Cool and fresh and he forces himself to walk down the sidewalk, to _get away_ , before he break.

Doggo doesn't know him.

Doggo's not his friend, isn't anything really, and still, _still_ — Papyrus bites down a laugh, curls his fingers around his ulna and _tugs_.

Pain. Mild and barely noticeable, but enough to keep him together until he can get away.

The sidewalk splits— an alleyway, and Papyrus turns into it without a thought.

He gets two steps, and then he lets himself slip.

He gasps in air, shuddering and loud, closes both sockets; finds the wall, and leans all of his weight against it.

He can't do this.

He can't do this anymore, he can't, he _can't_ — he doesn't want this anymore, he doesn't, he doesn't, _he doesn't_.

He's shaking, bones clattering together, and his breath is too fast, too sharp. It hurts.

He slides down the wall, hits the ground and tugs his legs to his ribs— his mind spins and spins, and it hurts, but not enough, and breathing is so hard.

He bites down the urge to sob.

He pushes his sleeve up to his elbow, worms his fingers into the gap between humerus, and the ends of his ulna and radius. Bone scrape against bone, and he jerks at the unpleasant feeling— spine straight and vision blanking, and he curves his palm over the end of his humerus. _Shoves_.

He strangles the scream.

Pain, bright and blaring, and tears well in his eyes but don't fall, and everything is quiet, silent.

He exhales, air shuddering out of him.

It's okay.

He has the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh boy, this one took a while!! but here it is!  
> the next chapter will ~~probably~~ happen a lot quicker. the reason this took so long, is the damn first line.  >o>  
> it did not want to work with me.
> 
> anywaaay!! thaNKS FOR THE (85!!!!) COMMENTS AND THE (222!!!!!!!!) KUDOS AND I HAVE 2000+ HITS WHAT THE HECKIE IS THIS.  
> YOU GUYS ARE ALL SO AMAZING AND I'M SO PROUD AND  
> ;____; i'm so sorry i don't answer your comments i always feel vaguely bad about it but please just imagine me going puppy-happy over your comments okay because that's what happens. i get so excited and happy.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Papyrus?"_

_Flowey's voice is contemplative— curious. It's still childlike, still young; but there's an edge to it, something serious and sharp._

_Papyrus looks up at his friend; absently curls his hands together— the vines threaded through his bones shift and slide, and it's an odd, uncomfortable feeling._

_He doesn't mind it. Not really._

_"YES?"_

_Flowey's face is set in an odd, almost, frown— he tilts his head, petals bouncing slightly. Vines come up, curl around Papyrus' left humerus. They slide across the bone, brush over the numerous cracks and fissures._

_"Why do you do it?"_

_Papyrus' teeth click together._

_"... DO WHAT?"_

_The vines tighten around the bone, quickly and harshly— Papyrus' breath catches at his vertebrae._

_"Don't play_ dumb _!" Flowey snaps. There's a weird catch in his voice, and it makes Papyrus' soul twist with something close to guilt._

_Still._

_"I'M N—" his voice chokes, and Flowey is snarling, eyes wide and— and—_

_"Why?" he asks, and there's that voice again. "Why do you **hurt** yourself?"_

_Papyrus' breath shakes out of him._

_The vines loosen. Flowey looks away._

_"... IT HELPS."_

_Flowey looks back. His face is still set in a snarl, but Papyrus_ knows _that most of that is a facade._

_A way to distract from the glimmer of worry in his eyes._

_"... With what?" Flowey asks, slowly._

_Papyrus smiles. His breath sits oddly behind his teeth, tight and painful._

_"EVERYTHING," he says, and forces his smile to stay._

_The vines tightens. Barbs and thorns form, scratches across his bones— the pain is distant and barely there, but Papyrus still feels a part of himself relax._

_" **What**?" Flowey forces out, each syllable coming slow and haltingly. His face is a thing out of nightmares, and the smile sits genuinely on Papyrus face, now, warm and touched._

_"IT'S NOT IMPORTANT," he says, because it isn't— he isn't._

_It doesn't matter._

_Flowey snarls. "Yes it **is**!" He leans forward, petals flopping with the motion. "You shouldn't—!"_

_Flowey cuts himself off with a snarl; vines tightening around Papyrus' bones, making them creak with pressure._

_Papyrus' breath catches, sticks._

_"How does it **help**?" Flowey asks, voice lost. "How does— how does hurting yourself _ help _?"_

_... How is he supposed to answer that?_

_Papyrus looks away. Something burns, bright and painful, and he can barely breathe for it._

_He feels like crying again._

_"It's—" he starts, stops. He can't even force his voice to be loud._

_He swallows. Teeth clicking together and sockets burning, and he focuses on the soft pain of barb across bone, the small lines scratching into him._

_He breathes._

_"It helps," he says, again. "With— with everything."_

_He breathes._

_"Everything's so— so sharp. And hard. But when I hurt— when I—" his voice breaks._

_Breathe. Focus on the pain, and the cracks, and the pressure. Breathe._

_"With the pain, I can stop. Stop thinking, just— **stop**."_

_He's shaking. He can't look at Flowey, can't— so he looks out over the forest, at the snow and the leaves and anything that isn't Flowey, that isn't—_

_He can't stop shaking._

_"... Why?"_

_Flowey's voice is a child's._

_A child, for the first time seeing reality, seeing how_ cruel _life is._

_Papyrus can't stop shaking._

_"Why. **Why**. Why do you—"_

_Flowey's voice is angry. Harsh._

_"I don't understand!" he shouts, and the vines snap down on Papyrus' bones— hard and quick, and something cracks._

_"Does **this** help?!" Flowey snarls, and vines curl around his ulna, his radius, and **snaps** —_

_Papyrus jerks, a scream cutting across his vertebrae and slamming into the back of his teeth._

_"Does_ that help _!" Flowey cries, and Papyrus gasps in air, tilts._

_Flowey's vine loosens, and Papyrus falls to the ground._

_"Does it!"_

_Papyrus exhales, inhales— the snow is cold and wet, and he looks up at Flowey, breathing shakily._

_"YES."_

_He isn't shaking anymore._

_The air is cold._

_Silent._

_Flowey sways. His face is furious, is lost, is—_

_His breath is harsh and loud._

_The vines slithers back into the ground, and Flowey bares his teeth, a last, quick, displeased expression, and then he is gone._

_Papyrus curls a hand around his snapped bones, and breathes._

"hey paps."

Sans' voice is tired and muffled, and Papyrus marks his spot in the book he's reading, closes it.

Sans has been watching him for half an hour, now, and whatever it is he's going to ask, it's going to be _a thing_.

So, no more reading.

"YES SANS?"

Papyrus lays the book aside, turns so he can look at his brother— his arm stings.

Sans is watching him with a curious look on his face. Behind his smile, there's traces of genuine concern, and Papyrus ignores the way his soul twists.

"where'd you go? during the party."

Papyrus clicks his teeth.

"NOWHERE? I SAT DOWN AT A TABLE, SANS."

Sans rolls his eyes. "that's not what i mean, bro. you disappeared on me."

Papyrus pushes his arm back; bones clacking together and grinding into each other.

"I DID _NOT_!" he says, adopting an offended tone. "YOU WERE JUST BEING _SUCH_ A DORK—"

Sans laughs. "nah bro—" he grins, wide and cheeky. "at grillby's, i'm a _fork_."

"OH MY GOD SANS, NO, THAT'S AWFUL."

"maybe, but you're smiling."

Papyrus laughs— shakes his head, but doesn't really bother trying to hide the smile.

Sans chuckles, burrows further into his pillow— their shared laughter tapers away, until their room is silent again.

It's— been a while.

"I GUESS I AM," Papyrus says, and looks up at the ceiling.

He doesn't know what else to say.

Breathing hurts, suddenly.

His sockets stings.

He's going to miss this.

"HEY SANS?"

"hmm?"

Sans voice is far-off, and a quick peek reveals that he's already starting to doze.

But his eyes are still open, and his attention is still on Papyrus.

Papyrus curls his fingers into the material of his shirt, focuses on the pain from his arm.

"ARE YOU... HAPPY?"

He doesn't look at his brother. Can't.

Sans exhales— a soft, slow, curl of air, and Papyrus hates the itch that crawls up along his spine, the way his soul curls with fear.

_What if—_

"yeah."

Sans' voice is low. Soft. Barely there, and Papyrus' gaze snaps directly over to his brother.

The smile on Sans' face is soft. Genuine.

It _hurts_.

"i'm... really happy, papyrus."

Something burns.

"THAT'S GREAT!" he says, because maybe if he says it, then—

"THAT'S— REALLY GREAT, SANS!"

Sans looks at him; smiles, a bit crookedly. A bit self-depreciative. "yeah?"

Papyrus laughs; hopes it doesn't sound too brittle, too fake.

"YEAH! SANS, YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY!!"

He smiles at his brother. Tries to make it genuine, to make it _real_.

It's harder than it should be.

"heh, i guess so."

He— he wants Sans to be happy. He's _glad_ that Sans is happy.

It's just—

"i'm really happy, you know," Sans says, slowly. "that everything worked out.

Sans smile is soft and happy and warm.

"that everyone's happy."

The smile on Papyrus' face feels wrong.

"YEAH. EVERYONE'S HAPPY."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god darn these chapters do not want to work with me. >o>  
> also, this is the last proper 'build up' chapter!! next chapter, shit hits the fan. :D
> 
> anyway: hope you enjoyed this ~~crappy~~ chapter, and, GOSH, thanks for the comments and the bookmarks and kudos AND BLUUUH???? i'm still so blown away. you guys are all lovely. ♥


	9. Chapter 9

The stars seem especially bright tonight.

Papyrus watches them absently, as he walks down the sidewalk— feet eating up the distance in even, unhurried steps.

He isn't going anywhere. Not really.

It had simply been to suffocating, sitting around with everyone— Alphys and Undyne had pestered everyone into an anime night, and Papyrus had had no choice but to sit in the living room with everyone else, and pretend to pay attention.

He hadn't been able to, really.

Not after yesterday.

He sighs. Ducks his head, and looks at his feet; at his shoes, tapping away at concrete.

He hasn't been able to stop thinking about it; about the question that's been plaguing him for the last many days.

_How?_

He clicks his teeth. Scratches at bone.

He doesn't know.

He doesn't _know_.

He groans, crossing his arms and digging his fingers into the ends of his humeri— he hates this, he hates the way it's an itch in the back of his mind, the way the question won't _stop_ —

He inhales, shakily. Drags his fingers across bone, and focuses on the quickly fading lines of pain.

Exhales.

A knife won't do.

Cutting through his vertebrae is— it's too much like That. Like what they did to him.

Sans would probably freak out over it, and Papyrus _can't_ do that to him.

There's no reason to remind his brother of the resets. Not now, when he's finally free of them.

He sighs. Curls his hands close to his ribs.

A rope won't do either.

There's no guarantee it would even work, and besides— he can't do that to them; can't let Sans, or even Undyne, find his dust spread out beneath a rope. Or, worse yet, find him still hanging there, dusting slowly but surely...

No. He can't do that.

He sighs. Again.

The question repeats.

How?

Maybe—

His breath hitches.

Maybe he could just _leave_.

Maybe he could just go away, walk until he fades, until his magic gives out and he _dies_.

The thought makes his breath shake with longing.

His sockets sting.

But— they would probably go after him. Look for him; they wouldn't notice at first, but starving to death could take _days_. Weeks.

It's not worth the risk.

He clicks his teeth; shifts his gaze— dark buildings stands in rows on the other side, windows empty and curtains drawn, and—

Something blares past.

A flash of light and blurred colour, and Papyrus stumbles a step back, turns to follow it—

A car.

He blinks.

Watches it disappear down the street, turn the corner. He stares after it's long gone.

Would that even work?

He clicks his teeth.

Would that be _enough_?

He sighs.

Probably not.

He turns back around, starts walking again— his mind lazily spins back to the question, and he clicks his teeth in thought, staring vacantly forward.

Maybe he could find a cliff. Or a really high place, and just _drop?_

Fall until he breaks into tiny little pieces at the bottom, shattering and dusting in one quick breath—

But there's always the chance that Sans would be there, somehow, and catch him, and no, then he'd have to _explain_ , and he _can't_.

His teeth click.

Drowning isn't an option.

Neither is slitting his wrists, or bleeding out, or—

A light flickers in the distance.

He stops.

...

They're happy.

Sans, Undyne. The two most important people in his life are _happy_.

Neither of them needs him anymore.

Nobody needs him anymore.

Beside Sans, beside Undyne, nobody's ever needed him— he's never been important to anyone, really.

Sans only loves him because they're brothers.

Undyne's only friends with him because he kept on pestering her, and really, she would be happy without him, wouldn't she?

The light draws closer.

Frisk— why would Frisk care? Why would _anyone_ care?

Toriel, Asgore, Alphys— to them, he's nobody except Sans' brother, except Undyne's 'friend', except That Loud, Stupid _Skeleton_.

His breath hitches, furiously.

Toriel only taught him how to cook because they live together.

Asgore only talks to him in the morning because it's _polite_.

Alphys is only nice to him because he's Undyne's 'friend'.

Why would _any of them miss him?_

He steps forward. One foot at a time.

He's doing everyone a favour, really.

Feet leaving the sidewalk; stepping across pavement.

Nobody is going to miss him.

Pace quickening. Steps hurrying.

This is for the best, really.

He turns to meet the light head on.

He can finally _stop_.

Papyrus closes his eyes, waits for the moment of impact— waits for the truck to crush him into dust.

To finally kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it, folks!  
> (jk, jk)  
> the next chapter will probably be a while, since [AJ](http://audaciousanonj.tumblr.com/) bribed me into writing the Gang AU. which, in case you don't know, is an AU wherein Papyrus befriends a gang and accidentally becomes a Mob Prince. yes, that is a thing.
> 
> anyho: THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE!! i'm still just. blown away. like, gdi you guys.


	10. Chapter 10

Impact.

He's thrown— air whistles around him, through him, sharp and cutting— and the concrete slams into him before he can even think.

His bones jar. His left arm scrapes over the concrete, and his head slams into it, bounces; for a single moment, it is almost like the world stops.

Air rough against his bones, tires squealing over pavement— something wet building at his temple; nausea, vision whirling and soul tattered in his chest.

There's a soft, growling noise— claws tapping against pavement.

He tips himself onto his back, vision a blur of white-streaks and black spots. He forces himself to breathe— to ignore the detachment curling over him, the disorientation. His vision bleeds back slowly; the stars fade into view, far away and yet so close. 

Sound taps closer.

The world is so very still.

And then it continues on, and he's still here.

"You okay?"

Papyrus closes his eyes— breathes. Lays his palms flat to the sidewalk, and pushes himself upright. He ignores the pain stinging all across his side and back, and the shuddering inside him.

Just— breathes.

"—YES," he says, after another exhale, inhale. "I AM FINE."

He looks over at Doggo— because that's who it is, half-crouched on the sidewalk, scrutinizing him with sharp eyes.

"You sure?" he asks, voice doubtful, and Papyrus forces a smile.

"YES."

An ear flickers— Doggo's eyes drift, back and forth, and he peels his lips back.

"You were almost hit."

But he _wasn't_ —

"I WASN'T," he says, and shifts so his feet are under him; stands back up. "SO I'M FINE, DOGGO."

Doggo frowns at him; stands up too, movement much more fluid than Papyrus'.

He cocks his head, eyes steady on the side of Papyrus' head.

"You're bleeding."

Papyrus blinks.

Raises a hand, and presses it to his temple; his fingers comes away red, and there's small bits of dust in the blood.

"OH."

He blinks again. Looks up at Doggo.

Considers shrugging.

"I MUST HAVE HIT MY HEAD WHEN YOU—" he barely manages not to stumble over his words, his ribs dragging against each other and there's something acidic in his mouth. "SAVED ME."

Doggo narrows his eyes.

Papyrus keeps a smile on his face.

"WHY WERE YOU HERE, ANYWAY?" he asks, before Doggo can pry further— he tugs absently at his sleeves, folds his arms and grinds his fingertips against his elbow joints.

"Out for a walk," Doggo says, quick and off-hand— his eyes are still focused on Papyrus, is still _sharp_. Papyrus hitches his smile an inch higher.

"OH. WELL, THANK YOU—" he steps back. "BUT I HAVE TO GO HOME NOW."

Turns around.

He gets one step, and then there's a hand on his humerus.

Claws press gently into his shirt, and Doggo's voice is—

"Papyrus, what's going on?"

Papyrus' breath hitches.

He ducks his head, stares vacantly down at his shoes— he grits his teeth together, because maybe then they won't chatter.

It feels like his ribs are curling together, like he can barely carry the weight— his spine is in pieces, each bit grinding into each other, and really, it doesn't _hurt_ —

Doggo turns him around, and vaguely, he's aware that he's gasping for breath.

"Papyrus—"

Doggo's face is open and almost, not quite, kind, and it is so very much like Flowey— like vines curling around him, like sobbing into petals and grass and breaking—

"Why did you try and kill yourself?"

He's crying.

Doggo's face smoothes kinder, softer; Papyrus hates himself, then, because he's _crying_ , why is he crying—

Doggo tugs him closer; he doesn't know why he doesn't resists, why he just— _goes_.

Arms wrap around him.

He bends, tugs his face into soft fur.

He doesn't sob— he doesn't _break_. He just waits for the tears to slow, for his bones to stop shaking and rattling.

He tries to remember how to breathe.

How to— how to do anything, except cry and shake apart, and he can't. He _can't_ —

"You okay?"

Doggo's voice is a soft rumble, and Papyrus blinks; his spine stings from standing bended over for a while, and he straightens, slipping out from Doggo's grip.

Doggo takes a half-step back, leans back on his heels— his ears flickers, and his eyes aren't judging.

"You won't talk about it, will you?"

There's an edge to Doggo's voice, like the fact saddens him— like he _wants_ to make Papyrus talk about.

Papyrus shakes his head.

"Okay," Doggo sighs; runs a paw across the fur on his head, and ruffles the back of it thoughtfully.

Papyrus curls his arms around himself, digging his fingers into the gaps between ribs— he feels exhausted.

It would have been so much easier if he had been hit.

"Okay," Doggo says, and Papyrus shakes his vision back. "How are you with numbers?"

Papyrus blinks.

"Uh—" he shakes himself, shudders in a breath. No, _no_ — don't crack apart, do not. "—OKAY, I GUESS?"

He smiles.

Doggo frowns, brief and quickly; but he shrugs it aside, and Papyrus is surprised at the pang of— of _warmth_ that action causes.

"Eh, good enough. If I give you my number, can you remember it?"

Papyrus fights back the urge to ask _why_ Doggo would give him his number— it can't be Sans, Papyrus knows that, but—

"PROBABLY."

Doggo nods. "Okay, good," and slowly rattles off a line of numbers, waiting between each to make sure Papyrus is following.  

"Tell me when you get back," Doggo says, and Papyrus clicks his teeth together; feels something burn behind his sternum, and—

"WHY?" he asks.

Doggo looks blankly at him— eyebrows raised, arms folded.

"Because you just threw yourself in front of a truck," he says, blandly, and Papyrus winces— doesn't know why it feels like he's caving in, doesn't know why it feels like his vertebrae are burning.

Why his sockets sting.

"—OKAY."

He doesn't know what else to say— he hugs himself closer, scratching absently at his ribs through the shirt, and what is he supposed to do, now?

He can't look at Doggo.

"Take care," Doggo says, after what feels like hours, but is probably only seconds. "And _don't_ do anything stupid, okay?"

Papyrus twitches his head; looks back at Doggo.

His eyes are serious— mouth set in a thin line.

Papyrus nods before he can think about it.

Tension Papyrus hadn't even noticed, slips away from Doggo— he nods, scratches at his cheek; shifts from one foot to the other.

"Okay, good— I'm, uh, going to go now."

He takes one step away, then pauses. Looks at Papyrus.

Opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then, softly, like he's not quite sure he's supposed to be saying it. "I don't want you to die."

Papyrus blinks.

His soul burns.

Doggo walks away.

Papyrus watches him go; doesn't know what to do, or how to react— his soul feels too heavy in his chest.

Doggo disappears from view, and slowly, haltingly, Papyrus starts walking too.

Each step he takes is tiring, exhausting— he can barely raise his legs, can barely make himself _move_.

He doesn't know why he's so tired.

He inhales harshly, stops; closes his eyes.

He's getting nowhere like this— everything is a haze, and he can barely feel his own bones, can barely feel _himself_.

He puts out his hand, palm up, and breathes— using magic when he's like this is always weird, is always hard. It's like trying to catch water, or keep sand between his fingers.

He breathes out.

Focuses.

The bone he summons is small; a finger bone, sharpened to a point, and he curls his fingers around it, exhales shakily.

His mind feels tattered. The world swims, except it doesn't— he's standing, except he isn't.

He closes his eyes again— didn't even notice he had opened them— and flips the bone over in his hand; holds out his arm, pushes up the sleeve, and presses bone to bone.

He doesn't do this much.

Wounds made like this heals slower. It's more noticeable; chipping bone with his fingers is easier to wave off— he can call that an unconscious habit, and it won't even really be a _lie_.

But this—

He breathes in again. Cuts.

Bone grind into bone, and the edge cuts in softly, haltingly— he jerks the bone in, hisses out air.

The pain is clear.

He turns the bone, wiggles it further into his ulna— keeps on pressing, and it's _there_.

It's real.

It _hurts_.

With a grinding noise, the bone slides free; a piece of his ulna comes with it. Papyrus curls his fingers around it.

His arm bleeds with pain.

But he can feel the sidewalk beneath his feet, can feel every bone in his body, can feel _him_.

He exhales shakily; shudders.

The bone dissipates, curls of magic fading into nothing, and he breathes— presses the piece of ulna to his palm.

The realness doesn't leave.

Slowly, he starts walking again— each step cautious, unsure; he waits for reality to slip away again, and he clings furiously to the piece of ulna in his hand, like it is his only link to reality.

Nothing happens.

He doesn't slip away again— he stays in reality, stays _himself_.

Their house looms ahead, and wearily, he lets himself accept that— that he's here, that he can feel, that he's not— away.

He unfurls his fingers from the piece of ulna; drops it to the ground, and grinds one foot down on it— it crushes slowly to dust, bone pressing into concrete and slowly falling apart under the pressure.

He wipes his shoe on the grass, and walks up to the front door. Remembers to wipe the worst of the blood on his temple off his sleeve

Inside, anime is playing— people are yelling and dramatic music is rising, and Papyrus doesn't bother keeping his steps quiet; just walks inside.

He doesn't go through the kitchen— instead he stops by the living room entrance, and looks inside.

The couches are full, and there's half-empty bowls of popcorn on the table, plates of crumbs and glasses of drinks positioned strategically— the TV is casting washed-out light over everyone, and a lamp glows softly in the corner.

Undyne is leaning off the couch, grin wide and earfins flaring— Alphys is half-wrapped around her middle, and she's excitedly whispering to Toriel, gesturing with her hands.

Frisk is curled up on Toriel's lap, half-dozing and half-awake; Toriel is attentively listening to Alphys, eyes shining with interest.

Sans is sitting beside Toriel, leaning up against Asgore— he and Asgore are talking, voices low; Sans seems to be explaining the anime to Asgore, grinning contently.

Papyrus doesn't speak up— just stands there, quietly, and watches.

Everyone really is happy.

"Oh!" Asgore turns his head; eyes crinkling up with a smile, and Papyrus patches the smile on as quickly as possible. "Papyrus! You're back from your walk."

"YES," he can barely keep his voice normal— it sticks to his vertebrae, drags along the bones. He keeps the smile on his face through sheer willpower. "I AM."

He tries to focus on the pain, thrumming away at his ulna— but it feels far away, distant, and his breath sticks to his ribs, wrenches at his bones.

"hey pap," Sans leans around Asgore, waves half-heartedly; Undyne raises one hand distractedly, and Alphys throws him a quick, shy smile.

"Was it an enjoyable walk, Papyrus?" Torial asks, and Frisk peels their eyes open, wriggles further into Toriel's soft, warm fur.

"YES," he says. "IT WAS NICE!"

"Do-do you wanna j-join?" Alphys asks, and Undyne snaps her head around.

"Yeah!! Come join in the partaking of quality _anime_!" she shouts, and Papyrus' smile almost wobbles, almost falls away.

He breathes; focuses on the fading pain, and _clings_.

"NAH, I THINK I'M GOING TO TAKE A NAP."

Bone. His teeth; head roaring, and half-crusted blood on his sleeve, and his ulna thrums, _repeats-repeats_.

He presses his feet to the floor.

"O-oh," Alphys deflates, and Papyrus tries to ignore the way his soul twists, the way he's an _awful person_ — he can't do this, not now, not when he's already slipping away again, drifting and—

If only he had _died_ —

"SORRY," he says, and steps back. "MAYBE NEXT TIME?"

Alphys nods; it's dejected and halting, and Undyne is already wrapping an arm around her shoulder, glaring, and—

"night bro," Sans says, already drifting away, and Toriel is dragging Alphys back in a conversation, and Frisk is watching him, hands curled around Toriel's wrists and—

Asgore watches him closely.

Papyrus smiles.

Steps back, again and again, until he's out of the half-light, until Asgore finally looks away, until he can just—

He goes upstairs. Around the bend, up the stairs— his breath is shaking, and he digs his fingers into the wound on his ulna. Presses down until it sparks white in his sockets, until he can taste the pain.

It doesn't help.

His hands shake, and he can barely get his— theirs— door open; stumbles inside, closes it behind him.

He was— something. He had to do something.

He breathes, each breath shuddering through him, making his bones rattle and grind, and he's gasping, really— like he hasn't been able to breathe for years, centuries, decades.

His knees hit the edge of his bed, and he flops down on it— something bounces, ahead of him, and he reaches out blindly; curls his fingers around his phone.

He doesn't notice if there's any messages— just taps it awake, goes straight to new messages, and types in Doggo's number.

[ **I'M HOME** ]

The phone slips from his fingers, lands near the edge and drops to the floor— he doesn't care, can't care, and shakily he drags the duvet out from beneath him, pulls it over himself.

Curls up on the bed.

Reality slips away.

He closes his eyes, and tries to _breathe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey look, everything is fine! :D  
> (that is a lie)  
> i don't really have much to say, tbh- i've been kinda caught up in a lot of stuff (all Pap-centric, tbh) and tatemae has kinda gone on the backburner because of it.  
> i am definitely continuing this, though i'm not sure when the next chapter will be up.   
> tho! i do have summer vacation (till SEPTEMBER) so it'll definitely get written during that period. :D
> 
> anyho; thANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE COMMENTS AND THE KUDOS AND JUST  
> I'M STILL BLOWN AWAY, I KNOW I SAY THAT EVERYTIME, BUT??? i got so many comments on the last chapter, and eee;; i'm so glad you guys like this


	11. AUTHOR NOTE

i wouldn't normally do this, but i know a lot of you want to read more, and also don't know what's going on with **tatemae** , so.

first of: i've changed account! i'm now **zefive** on both tumblr and ao3, though my ao3 is completely empty as of writing. 

secondly, i don't really write Undertale right now. i'll likely pick it up again, since it's one of my all time obsessions, but right now, _i'm not writing it_. at all. which, obviously, means no **tatemae** update in the near future.

i can't say if **tatemae** is dead or not, because i still like the premise a lot. however, if i do ever pick **tatemae** up again, it won't be here, it'll be on my new account. and it'll probably be a rewrite.

anyway, i'm really sorry! but shit happens, and this fic is sadly a victim of said shit. i would post the scraps i had written of the next chapter, but i've lost all my notes, so that's not a thing that'll ever happen. (whoops)

again, i'm super sorry, but that's life! i hope you have a good day, and if you hunger for Papyrus angst, you can always check out **Yessica** , who writes very lovely Pap angst.


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